of his own flora, or at least he kept his wife sorting and arranging
his specimens all the time; and I think he's a regular old frump,'
said Polly, irreverently, but meeting Aunt Truth's reproving glance,
which brought a blush and a whispered 'Excuse me,' she went on,
'Well, what I mean is, he doesn't know any more than other people,
after all; for he cares for nothing but bushes and herbs and seeds
and shrubs and roots and stamens and pistils; and he can't tell
whether a flower is lovely or not, he is so crazy to find out where
it belongs and tie a tag round it.'

'I must agree with Polly,' laughed Jack. 'Why, I went to ride with
him one day in the Cathedral Oaks, and he made me get off my horse
every five minutes to dig up roots and tie them to the pommel of his
old saddle, so that we came into town looking like moving herbariums.
The stable-man lifted him on to his horse when he started, I suppose,
and he would have been there yet if he hadn't been helped off. Bah!'
For Jack had a supreme contempt for any man who was less than a
centaur.

By this time they had turned off the main thoroughfare, and were
travelling over a bit of old stage road which was anything but easy
riding. There they met some men who were driving an enormous band of
sheep to a distant ranch for pasture, which gave saucy Polly the
chance to ask Dr. Winship, innocently, why white sheep ate so much
more than black ones.

He fell into the trap at once, and answered unsuspectingly, in a
surprised tone, 'Why, do they?' giving her the longed-for opportunity
to respond, 'Yes, of course, because there are so many more of 'em;
don't you see?'